


Estranged

by Cakepopple



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gen, Thanksgiving, spiderson, what im saying is that its v soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-22
Updated: 2019-11-22
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:54:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21523279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cakepopple/pseuds/Cakepopple
Summary: es·tranged/iˈstrānjd/adjective: feeling that you do not belong to a specific group or community.“I don’t get it,” Loki says. His words are swarmed by the lively, drunk chatter in the room, so they echo a little muffled and underwhelming. Monotonous, he murmurs, “I don’t understand the point of this so-called Thanksgiving.”Peter looks up from the mashed potatoes he’s shoveling into his mouth. Gravy dribbles from the corner of his lips, and he hastily swipes his napkin over the drip before it can fall into his lap. “What don’t you understand?” Blindly, since his eyes are still on Loki, he reaches across the table for another Hawaiian roll from the bowl a couple feet away. He stuffs one—all at once—into his mouth. “It’s food! What’s not to get?”Peter helps Loki understand Thanksgiving and being thankful in general.
Relationships: Loki & Peter Parker
Comments: 14
Kudos: 165





	Estranged

**Author's Note:**

> Loki deserves love and Peter is a soft, loving Baby, so obviously they would get along

es·tranged 

/iˈstrānjd/ 

adjective: feeling that you do not belong to a specific group or community.

“I don’t get it,” Loki says. His words are swarmed by the lively, drunk chatter in the room, so they echo a little muffled and underwhelming. Monotonous, he murmurs, “I don’t understand the point of this so-called Thanksgiving.” 

Peter looks up from the mashed potatoes he’s shoveling into his mouth. Gravy dribbles from the corner of his lips, and he hastily swipes his napkin over the drip before it can fall into his lap. “What don’t you understand?” Blindly, since his eyes are still on Loki, he reaches across the table for another Hawaiian roll from the bowl a couple feet away. He stuffs one—all at once—into his mouth. “It’s food! What’s not to get?” 

Loki sighs. His elbow rests on the table and pulls the tablecloth taut while his cheek falls into his palm. Numbly, he watches Thor down another bottle of beer in one go. His brother lets out a loud, obnoxious laugh as he slams the tinted glass back down next to his plate. The recycling bin sits next to his chair, having been moved after his tenth drink in the first hour. It’s filled nearly halfway with used bottles. Frowning, Loki turns to his own drink, mostly full. “But why is it a whole day for food? You eat  _ every _ day.”

The laugh Peter gives is insulting, like a parent taking joy from their child’s innocent mispronunciation of a new word. As though Loki’s lack of comprehension is something pure and amusing. Loki hastily picks up his cup and takes a swig, hiding his embarrassment and his shaky, nervous hands behind the crystal wine glass. Alas, he’s as transparent as the cup.

“Sorry, sorry,” Peter whispers. “I just hadn’t ever really thought of you as someone… naive.” Loki wrinkles his nose, burying his glass into the tablecloth begrudgingly. He shoots Peter a look. “I just had my reality shattered, cut me some slack! I thought you knew, like, everything.” There’s a hint of admiration in the wrinkles at the corners of Peter’s smile; it’s nowhere near the starstruck gaze he perpetually gives Stark, but Loki feels his stomach stir nonetheless. He wonders how many times Peter has looked up to him like that and how many times he’d failed to notice. It’s familiar, a little familial. A little like gratification. 

“Well, I don’t,” Loki snaps, quickly grabbing a drumstick from the center of the table. 

Instinctively, Peter passes him the gravy. “That’s okay! I can explain it, if you want.” Loki eyes him warily, not fully facing him, like he’ll be mocked if he turns. Shallowly, cautiously, he nods. “I don’t actually know the details either, but the holiday isn’t about food. Not really. It’s called  _ Thanksgiving!  _ It’s about being thankful!” 

Loki raises an eyebrow. He glances at Thor across the table, openly wasted. Then, he looks to Stark, slouched in his chair, grimacing and whining about eating too much. He sweeps his eyes briefly over everyone else (thinking mostly about Morgan passed out on Pepper’s lap, Natasha fighting Clint for the other drumstick, and Banner, who is sneaking a couple more Hawaiian rolls onto his plate). Ultimately, his gaze reaches Peter, and he raises an eyebrow. “And you express gratitude by being gluttonous and getting drunk?”

Choking on a bite of corn, Peter laughs again. “No! It’s more like… meals are a time for everyone to be together.” He waves a hand at the kitchen, at his Aunt May, who’s forking slices of her pumpkin pie onto tiny plates for dessert. Then he motions to the rest of the group. “Plus, you can cook together,” he explains, “or watch movies together! And my Aunt May and I decorate the Christmas tree together every Thanksgiving, too.” His smile as he elaborates is welcoming, and Loki thinks, fleetingly, that he might be able to understand what the point of the holiday is. For a moment, he gets close to figuring it out, like how it feels to almost remember where you last heard a song stuck in your head, but the concept flits away. In one ear and out the other. 

He frowns, shaking his head. “I still don’t get it,” he concludes, and he makes sure his voice sounds more parts condescending than disappointed. Something defensive rolls around in his stomach, more than insecure. Loki can’t quite reach what he’s failing to understand, almost as if his mind is asking him,  _ what do you have to be thankful for? _

Here he is, seated around a long, crowded table, out of place and alone, just as much the black sheep here as he is in Asgard. The one person who doesn’t belong among this group of heroes and loved ones. There’s nothing on the crimson tablecloth or in the gentle Christmas music in the air that inspires a feeling of gratitude within him. 

What does he have to be thankful for?

Certainly, his face sours and gives his disappointed emotions away because, gingerly, Peter smiles. Shrugging, he shoves his empty dinner plate away and offers, “That’s okay! I’m sure there are lots of Asgardian holidays I wouldn’t get, either.” He turns, landing every ounce of his attention on Loki, eyes attentive and mirthful. Encouragement lines his body language like a sunny silhouette. 

“Oh, definitely,” Loki says. A smile steals his face when Peter doesn’t change the conversation; he keeps watching, a curious smile sitting at the corner of either eye. Grinning, Loki lets himself loose, if only a little. He doesn’t mind how he begins to speak with his hands, waving them in small circles as he answers Peter’s unspoken plea for details. His voice is quiet, yet comfortable, as he speaks. “There’s one holiday, my personal favorite, where—” 

Thor laughs across the table, and everyone in the room, even Peter, turns to listen to his next story. Loki falls into silence once more, sighing and sipping cider from his wine glass. When Peter doesn’t ever turn back to him, and when the cider is nothing more than a ring of fizzing gold at the bottom of his glass, Loki quietly pushes his chair back. Crossing the room, he deposits his dishes in the sink. He takes one of the tiny plates of pumpkin pie with the dessert fork criss crossed on top, then he wanders away from the dining room. Eagerly, almost desperately, he escapes the conversation; he felt unwelcome in it regardless. 

Following the twinkling holiday music into the next room, where the radio is, he finds himself far enough from the others that their words drown out. All he hears is the pleasant sound of piano keys ringing from the radio, and the scuff of his socks on the oak floorboards. He comes to stop at the end of the room, where a synthetic pine tree nearly brushes its top needles on the ceiling. It has lights wrapped around some of its branches, gold and small, but otherwise, it’s bare. Peter had called it a Christmas tree, and he’d just said he and May decorated it every year on Thanksgiving, but so far no one has.

Loki stands a foot away, forking bites of pie into his mouth, as he watches one lightbulb at the bottom of the tree flicker. Laughter echoes in the other room, but it seems distant and foreign, practically a different language. For a minute, Loki wonders what he’s thankful for again. Truly, he’s probably thankful for Thor, but not at moments like this, when his brother gets all the attention and adoration. Maybe Stark, for providing the space to spend time together, but then again, he feels out of place here. Peter, probably, for at least trying to include him. 

He takes his last bite of pie and frowns. What is he thankful for?  _ Who _ is he thankful for? 

Does he have anyone?

A hand settles, careful, on his shoulder. Peter steps next to him, balancing two plates on his other forearm. “I brought you another slice,” he says. Solemnly, Loki nods and stacks it atop his empty one, sliding his fork into the piece without much hesitation. Silence settles over the two of them for a moment, but Peter shuffles his feet and cuts it short. “So, I said Aunt May and I usually decorate the tree, yeah?” Loki nods. “Well, since we’re celebrating with everyone this year, I thought…” Peter shifts again, clacking his fork on his dessert plate, picking at it. “I’ll just go grab it.”

He slides, on his socks, to the other room, then returns with a small box a couple seconds later. It’s plain, with simple, thin cardboard and white coating; it’s unmarked. After Peter passes it to him, trading it for Loki’s half eaten pie, Loki can’t guess what’s inside. Even as he shakes it and turns it around, he has no idea. 

“What is it?”

“Open it and see!” Peter leans close, into his personal space, but it’s soft, excited, not at all as invasive as it might have been with someone who isn’t as generally harmless as Peter. “C’mon, c’mon! Hurry up! It’s not even wrapped, ya dingus!” Loki snorts a little, behind his fake disinterested expression. 

He feigns putting it to the side. “I don’t know, maybe I should wait—” Peter’s jaw falls open, eyebrows furrowing, and Loki laughs. As he does, the box is nearly snatched from his hands; he pulls it up over Peter’s head just in time. “Alright, alright, I’ll open it.” Grabbing the lid, he slides it off, and when it’s off, Peter quickly takes the lid out of the way. In the box, there’s tissue paper, which Loki peels away, too. 

Under all the packaging, there’s a circle of shimmering forest green. Flattened metal, engraved and pierced to form an intricate design and cursive letters. Loki sees his own name there, swirled and dotted and surrounded by carved trees, snowflakes, and other Christmas things he doesn’t quite know the meaning of. Carefully, he pulls the sheet of metal out of the box. He holds it cautiously on his palm, and his skin makes the metal change from dark green to gold.

Peter jumps once, fist pumping in the air. “Isn’t it so cool? The metal changes color based on temperature, which was Mr. Stark’s idea, ‘cuz he helped me make it with fancy laser tools—”

“You made this,” Loki breathes, surprise and confusion fuzzing his mind. “But… I don’t…” He fiddles with it in his hands, until the item turns entirely gold from the temperature of his skin. At the top of the circle, thread is looped through, and Loki shifts his hold there, so it can turn green again. “Why?” 

Peter leans out of Loki’s space, smiling. “Oh, well, you and Mr. Thor have never celebrated Thanksgiving or Christmas before, and I wanted to make sure you had ornaments for the tree! I made you both one!” He winks. “Don’t tell him, but I like how yours turned out more.”

Loki squints at the metal, swaying it back and forth by its loop of thread. “You mean, to decorate the tree? Isn’t that for you and your aunt to do? Maybe the others, but not… I’m not a part of that, am I?” Something like claustrophobia creeps into his mind, looming over all his other thoughts. He feels like he doesn’t belong, like everyone else is bigger and more important. Like he’s the only one who shouldn’t be a part of this. 

Tilting his head back, Peter laughs. “What? Of course you’re a part!  _ Everyone _ in the family helps decorate the tree!” 

There’s a moment of lag in which Loki processes Peter’s words, the specific ones he chose to use. He blinks at Peter, as if calculating, totaling the words, trying to comprehend the implication. It’s there, as clear as that one blinking light at the bottom of the tree. The implication strikes him so firmly—until his hands turns clammy and his breath feels dry and broiling on his lips. Loki knows  _ exactly _ why that statement is so hard to swallow. 

Everyone in the  _ family. _

Lifting the ornament up, so it’s level with his eyes, Loki smiles. As the object twirls in his line of sight, it glimmers. The light catches on all the grooves and intricate artwork; bits of the Christmas tree are bright through the piercings. “Everyone in the family helps decorate,” he repeats, lowering the ornament.

“Yup! You wanna put the first one on the tree?” 

Loki isn’t sure he’s ever felt a smile as vividly as he feels this one. In his cheeks and the corners of his eyes, he feels it. A pleasant, happy burn in his cheeks, and water in his eyes that turns the shimmering tree into nothing more than a smear of gold and green. Turning to Peter, he nods. “Yes, I think I do.”

And so he does. 

Peter watches, tells Loki how to keep the branch steady as he makes sure the ornament is secure. When it’s all done, they both take a step back, like the one, lone, shimmering sheet of metal on the tree is a work of art. Like it’s something profound, revolutionary, unprecedented.

Because maybe, to Loki, it is. 

“It looks so lonely,” Peter comments. “Wanna invite everyone else to put some other ornament friends up there with it?” This time, Loki doesn’t think everyone else will make him feel claustrophobic or out of place. It’s not uncomfortable when the rest of the group comes in; he doesn’t consider them unwelcome, nor does he consider  _ himself _ unwelcome. He feels, for once, as though he belongs here. Thor receives and adores his new ornament, laughs, draws all the attention to himself, yet Loki doesn’t mind. In fact, he laughs along. 

The crowd comes in, swarms the tree, decorates it in all different colors and tinsel, all sorts of shapes and plastics and knickknacks. They sing and chatter, drink cider, tell jokes and stories. Loki tells some, too. When the tree is done, branches stuffed beyond full, until the whole tree seems seconds from swaying to one side, everyone sticks around. The stories and the laughter don’t stop.

The room sounds and  _ feels _ like love.

He looks around him, at the people and the mirth in the room, and again, he thinks to himself,  _ what do I have to be thankful for? _

This time, though, he takes one look at Peter, Thor, and everyone else, and he easily finds his answer. 

fam·i·ly

/ˈfam(ə)lē/

noun: a group consisting of those you love, and those who love you.

**Author's Note:**

> please comment and kudo!!! it means a lot to me!!  
> if you want, you can follow me on [my tumblr](https://peterparkerincorrectquotes.tumblr.com/), too!


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